Melancholock

1: Neon Slushie :1

The clouds were beneath his feet.

There were billboards showing gorgeous white women flashing their radiant teeth. Somewhere a dog was barking, but it was somehow comforting rather than irritating. Lots of voices murmured around him, though there were no people. The clouds were purple now. He didn't think to question the horse standing on something flat and invisible. He was slowly sinking, and something was getting louder; crying, sobbing. As the purple clouds faded and the other voices dissolved, he felt the pillow beneath his head and the quilt on his body.

He opened his eyes, gazing up into the darkness, wondering why he was awake at this ungodly hour, why he hadn't naturally awoken the next day. Well, the red numbers said it was 2:38 am, which was technically the next day, but everyone knows that didn't count. He rolled over, ready to sink back into whatever cluttered dream his brain had in store before he heard the thing that had awoken him in the first place. The crying had been real?

John groaned, dragging himself up from his warm bed to go take care of the big child making the noise. He scrubbed his eyes as he trudged, slapping on the hall light, nearly tripping over his own tired feet. The sound was coming from the bathroom, though the light wasn't on. He gripped the door frame, hanging nonchalantly, swinging his arm around to flick the light on.

It was none other than his roommate, Sherlock Holmes, crying in the bathtub.

He had eyeliner running down his face, two cigarettes between his angular lips, and half a bottle of vodka propped between his knees. He was scrolling through old texts, whimpering, wiping his eyes and his nose on his long sleeves.

He'd been dumped about a month ago, and was still completely and utterly distraught.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, putting the toilet lid down to sit with his friend. Sherlock hiccuped and squeezed his eyes shut, lowering his phone and leaning his head on the edge of the tub. "We were so fucking cute together, John, like, we were the greatest," his voice broke on the last word. "A whole year of my life wasted on that douche."

"It wasn't a waste if you enjoyed it, kid."

Sherlock groaned at the statement, tossing his phone out the door like a baby throwing a damn fit. At least it had a rubber case on it.

"Sherlock, let's get you to bed, you've got work in the morning," John pleaded, reaching for the bottle that Sherlock was already guzzling from again. He'd mastered the art of placing the cigarettes far enough apart that he could just put the lip of the bottle between them and go to town. Vodka dribbled down his chin as John lifted it away from him.

"There's no point, John. My life is over. I can't live without him," he whined. John slung Sherlock's arm over his shoulder, hoisting him up out of the tub. "Your life isn't over, you fucking drama queen," John struggled. Sherlock was taller than him by four inches, and was wearing these heavy black platform boots to top it off. He clambered out of the tub, a cigarette falling out of his mouth in the process. The neighbors downstairs were going to kill them for making so much noise.

Sherlock had told John one time that it was bad to sleep with makeup on, and that it should always be removed. Sober Sherlock would want John to help Drunk Sherlock remember that. So John pulled out a makeup wipe from the little bag on the counter and gently tried to wipe Sherlock's tear stained, mascara rimmed eyes. But Sherlock's shoulders were shaking and his eyes were squeezing shut, so John just sighed in defeat.

"You should eat something," John worried. They hadn't gone grocery shopping that week and all that was left were eggs and ketchup, which wouldn't help Sherlock the next morning. "If I go down to the gas station for you, will you promise me you'll stay safe? Can I trust you not to hurt yourself this time?"